


nightmares neverending

by 49percentchanceofbees



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Minor Lavellan/Solas, Nonbinary Hawke (Dragon Age), Not Really Character Death, Other, Self-Indulgent, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-06-23 13:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15607671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/49percentchanceofbees/pseuds/49percentchanceofbees
Summary: After assisting in the siege at Adamant, Hawke is lost in the Fade. But "lost" doesn't mean "dead." Fenris refuses to give up on Hawke, spurring a rescue expedition into a land of pure nightmare.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: This is a deeply self-indulgent and therefore considerably implausible fic. Don't @ me with logic.

_ Hawke ran, in the dark, boots slipping against wet stone. Their passage made ripples in puddles of otherwise dark and stagnant water, breaking reflections of a strange sky, green and full, with a dark city in the distance. Some of the things in the sky were moving. Some of the things in the sky were laughing.  _

_ Something rose before Hawke and they sliced it down, barely looking. They hopped over the remains and it rose again behind them; Hawke’s axe arced through the air again. It rose again, but Hawke had already moved on. They ran past a child’s bed, past an array of candles floating through the air, hurled around a corner, and threw themself against the wall, panting. Not just exertion: their eyes were wide, pupils dilated with fear. Their armor rattled as their legs shook, but their axe did not. _

_ “Silly creature,” came a voice from the sky, from everywhere. “Did you think you could hide from me? From us? We always see you. I’m always watching.” _

_ The wall behind Hawke grew arms, grabbed them, pulled them in; stone covered their shoulders, their feet. Some of it cracked away as they struggled, but not enough -- the stone arms closed around their throat; one grabbed the axe. The stone covered their mouth, growing towards their nose, smothering; now and not before they screamed, barely audible through the coating of rock. The rock forced itself down their throat, up their nose. They couldn’t breathe. But their eyes remained uncovered till the last, white-edged and terrified until they finally fluttered closed. _

He woke sweating from the nightmare and reached for them but found only the edge of the empty tent. He was alone.

 

*

 

It was raining when Fenris walked into the Inquisition post. He’d stayed in the area long enough that the soldiers here knew him -- probably a sign that he needed to move along -- so he didn’t get the sidelong glances and hands on weapons that often greeted him, based on his race, odd appearance, and very large sword. Besides, the Inquisition had a fair number of elven warriors in its own ranks; the soldier who greeted him bore proudly a pair of pointed ears and an Inquisition-issue sword.

That soldier looked more solemn than usual today, but Fenris attributed this to the rain and felt slightly relieved not to have to navigate his typical chirpy small talk when asking about mail. He received a single, thick envelope and handed over his own packet: a letter for Hawke, as chatty as he could make it with his limited eloquence, and a short and half-sarcastic note for Varric. Walking out, Fenris thought that whatever you said about the Inquisition, they had vastly improved the postal system through most of war-torn Ferelden. He received letters from Hawke almost regularly now, rather than on the odd occasion one of Varric’s agents could track him down.

Hawke’s letters were usually affectionate, gossipy, slightly pointless, and the high point of Fenris’ days. He spent the walk back to his hidden camp thinking with vague warmth about what the latest one might contain. Hawke seemed to enjoy their time with the Inquisition, and from their writings Fenris had gotten to know its core members even though he’d never seen their faces. He couldn’t confess much investment in their lives, but Hawke’s anecdotes were usually quite entertaining, and more importantly, he could almost hear Hawke’s voice in the writing, as if they were reading to him again.

Reaching his camp, he crawled into his small tent to get out of the rain and peeled the Tethras family seal from the envelope with a dagger, flicking it aside into his writing kit. When the rain stopped and he started his campfire again, he’d melt it down and reuse the wax on his own letters.

First out of the envelope came some sturdy sheets of paper folded together, with “READ ME FIRST” written on the outside, underlined twice. Fenris recognized Varric’s clear handwriting and Varric’s stationary. He almost chuckled at the command: clearly, Varric knew or suspected that Fenris usually tossed his letters aside unread to get to Hawke’s, and only sometimes came back to them.

Second inside was a smaller envelope, wrinkled and much-folded, with Fenris’ name on the back in Hawke’s writing. The wax seal on this one was cracked from rough handling and, unlike the rest of Hawke’s recent letters, bore the Amell family crest, from the signet ring that Hawke hadn’t bothered to carry with them when leaving their home in Kirkwall.

Fenris turned Hawke’s letter over in his hands once, glanced at Varric’s note, and then cut the cracked seal off the smaller envelope and crumbled it in his fingers, leaving no sign of the Amell crest, before letting the bits of wax fall into the dirt.

 

_ My love, _

_ This letter is bad news. Brace yourself. I’ve spent half the night trying to think of an easier way to say this, but there isn’t one.  _

_ If you’re reading this, I’m dead. _

 

Fenris stared at the line, thought he’d read it wrong, and traced it with his finger as he went back over it, just to make sure. Hawke’s handwriting was easily legible; after all, it was what he’d first learned to read. The letters stubbornly refused to spell anything but  _ I’m dead _ .

For a second Fenris’ head felt stuffed with cotton, as if he had a bad cold; the rain on the oiled canvas of his tent was very loud. Then he dropped the letter as if it’d stung him and scrambled for Varric’s missive.

 

_ Fenris, _

_ I have bad news. You might want to sit down. Or drink something. Something strong, I’d recommend. Trust me, you’re going to want to be drunk for this one. _

 

The letter continued in that vein for several lines; Fenris made a frustrated noise, scanned for Hawke’s name, and picked it up again there, mid-sentence.

 

_ Hawke was lost in the Fade. They sacrificed themself to distract the demon so that the rest of us could escape. They’re gone. _

 

Varric went on, but Fenris stopped truly reading. Varric’s account of the siege at Adamant, of the Fade, of how Hawke had saved the Wardens; the dwarf’s attempts to comfort Fenris, his insistence that Hawke was truly dead, even if there wasn’t a body, and that Hawke would want him to grieve and move on -- Fenris’ eyes moved past them all without absorbing any of it. Eventually Varric’s letter slipped from Fenris’ numb fingers. He couldn’t say how long he sat there, listening to the rain, before it occurred to him to read Hawke’s letter, though once it did, it immediately became the most important thing in the world.

 

_ My love, _

_ This letter is bad news. Brace yourself. I’ve spent half the night trying to think of an easier way to say this, but there isn’t one. _

_ If you’re reading this, I’m dead. _

_ I don’t know how, or when. As of writing this, I’m perfectly safe, but you know I can never stay that way for long. That’s why I’m writing: I don’t want to leave you without a word. A lot of words, actually. And I don’t want to leave you at all. _

_ I don’t know what to say to make it better, but I have to try. _

_ I love you, and I’m so sorry for dying. If I had my druthers, I’d be at your side right now. The thought of leaving you alone when you need me the most tears at me. It’s all right if you’re angry at me for leaving, for getting myself killed. I understand, and I don’t want you to beat yourself up for being mad, or for any other reason. I don’t want you to have to feel like you failed or should have been there. You know I know how it feels to blame yourself for losing someone you love, and I know you might not be able to avoid it, but this is not your fault. _

_ I write this without knowing how I will die. I figure chances are I’ve chosen to do something heroic and stupid, and I understand if you’re angry with me for that. All I can say is that no, you couldn’t have stopped me. I assume I didn’t know I was going to die, or I wouldn’t have picked “heroic and stupid” over a long life with you. But if I did, I probably did it because I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself knowing I let others suffer so that I could be safe. I’m so sorry. I’m also sorry if I tripped on my axe and fell off a cliff or something and died for stupid reasons, and if that’s the case I give you full permission to curse my name. In fact, I give you full permission anyway. _

_ You’re going to grieve, and it’s going to be hard. It’s going to take a long time and it’s going to feel unbearable. But you’re going to get through it. That’s all I ask of you: to keep going. You can blame me, blame yourself, be angry, be sad -- feel whatever you have to feel. Do whatever you have to do. But, please, keep living your life and seeking out what makes you happy. I’ve always wanted to see you happy. I know that by dying, I haven’t exactly helped with that. It may be cruel of me to ask anything of you at this point, but I can’t help it. I’m not asking you to actually be happy; I know that might not seem possible right now. I’m just asking you to try, and keep trying. It’s all right if you feel like giving up, but I need you to still get up the next day and go on with your life. _

_ Remember, you’re not alone in this. You can rely on our friends, Aveline and Varric and Isabela and others; they’re grieving too. (At least, I think they are. Gamlen might just be sniffing around the estate. Please don’t hit him too hard for that; he can’t help it. It’s in his nature. I think it might be how he expresses grief.) _

_ I love you. I wish I had more time with you. But I’m glad you’re reading this, because I’m glad for a chance to say goodbye. _

_ Goodbye. Until we meet again at the Maker’s side. Or maybe we don’t; I never was totally sure on that one. But I hope we will. _

_ With all my love, _

_ Hawke _

 

Fenris read the letter three times, beginning to end, as something jagged and broken grew inside him. Part of him felt a cutting disappointment:  _ That’s all? That’s no help! _ A more rational part of him knew it  _ was _ help, and a less rational part of him excoriated the first for so disrespecting Hawke’s final words. Those were reactions to the letter; he had no idea how he felt about the event itself. He could not say “Hawke’s death.” It was not real. It could not be real; if it was real -- no. 

He carefully folded Hawke’s letter and went to put it away with the rest of Hawke’s letters to him, which he reread in the evenings. Then he changed his mind and tucked it into a pouch on his belt instead, to have it with him. He picked up Varric’s letter and read it almost mindlessly, once again failing to process most of the information, until he came to that vital phrase that sparked something in his mind.  _ Lost in the Fade _ .  _ Lost _ . Not dead.  _ Lost _ . What was lost could be found, couldn’t it? Not by Varric, apparently, but he’d already decided Hawke was gone; he wouldn’t really look. Perhaps, said a mean-spirited and paranoid part of Fenris, he was even glad -- he shut that down.  _ Lost in the Fade _ . The Fade, the realm of dreams --  _ the demon Nightmare  _ \-- and Fenris’ nightmare --

The elven soldier tried to say something when Fenris burst back into the Inquisition post, but something in his face, the intensity in his eyes, stopped the boy in his tracks, as the other soldiers reached for their weapons. Fenris didn’t care. He had only one interest: “How do I get to Skyhold?”


	2. Chapter 2

Inquisitor Lavellan looked across the imposing map table at Fenris with the exact same solemn expression that everyone else in the Inquisition had directed at him, except for Varric, who looked crushingly lost and trying badly to hide it, and stone-faced Cullen. Cullen had escorted him here to the Inquisition’s command center with four other soldiers, supposedly an honor guard, whom Fenris felt certain were actually present in case his grief caused him to turn to violence against the people for whom Hawke had given their life. Four was probably the highest number Cullen could get away with without appearing paranoid, but he didn’t look happy about it. Perchance he remembered how many templars Fenris had killed back when everything turned pear-shaped in Kirkwall.

“It’s good to meet you, Fenris,” said the Inquisitor, “though I wish it were under better circumstances. Varric’s told me a lot about you.”

Not much of it good, from the slightly guilty look on Varric’s face. Probably Varric had mentioned that Fenris was emotionally unstable and prone to violence, and that the only person typically able to restrain him was now _lost in the Fade_.

Fenris didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hawke is alive.”

The Inquisitor and Varric exchanged pitying looks. They’d expected that response, and Fenris in turn had expected their disbelief. Of course everyone thought him mad with grief. He might have believed it himself if he hadn’t known better.

“I’ve seen them,” Fenris pressed. “In dreams, which is to say, in the Fade.”

“Fenris --” Varric began, but a look from the Inquisitor silenced him.

Lavellan’s pitying expression began to take on notes of a mage’s superiority. “Of course Hawke is on your mind a lot at the moment. That your thoughts of them carry over into your dreams is hardly surprising.”

Fenris had experienced this argument in his head dozens of times on the journey to Skyhold, so rather than protesting their disbelief, he got straight to the point: “When you left them in the Fade, Hawke wore Kirkwall-style armor with a red scarf over their breastplate. They had a cut on their face, here. The axe they carried bore cleansing runes. The Fade of Nightmare is rocky, like a half-submerged cave, but open to the raw Fade above -- or perhaps below; its gravity shifts. Red lyrium crystals push through the rock, and green fires light the way.”

The Inquisitor frowned, _vallaslin_ twisting as her brow furrowed. Dalish and a mage: Fenris half expected her to tell him that he had no idea what he was talking about, _flat-ear_.

Behind Fenris, Cullen cleared his throat. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“It’s relevant because he’s right,” the Inquisitor said slowly, “and how would he know that? Unless …”

She looked at Varric, who shook his head. “I didn’t get that specific.”

The Inquisitor turned to the other mage in the room, identifiable by his staff. From Hawke’s writings, Fenris could put a name to the bald elf: Solas. _Too serious for my tastes_ , Hawke had written, half-joking, _but precisely to Lavellan’s, it seems_.

“Is it possible that he’s actually seeing Hawke in the Fade?” Lavellan asked. “Could they still be alive?”

Solas hesitated, frowning. Sounding reluctant, he admitted, “It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible. Considering how extraordinarily rare it is for someone to walk physically in the Fade, I have little enough information on the matter, so almost anything _could_ be possible. But even if Hawke survived our initial encounter with the demon …”

“Nightmares never-ending,” said a young man whose presence Fenris had barely registered. Skinny, blond, avoiding eye contact: he must have been Cole. _He’s spooky as shit_ , Hawke had said, _but Varric likes him, so I try not to yell at him to stay out of my head too often._ Fenris didn’t expect to have any such compunction himself. “Empty hands and hollow feasts: the water isn’t water. The braver you are, the harder they push.”

“Cole is right,” said Solas, as if this were a helpful addition to the conversation. “Being trapped in the Fade will soon kill Hawke, if it hasn’t already. Even in its most hospitable regions, the food of spirits cannot fully sustain a living body. And we left Hawke in the domain of Nightmare, a demon beyond any we’ve ever seen: it may be more merciful to hope that they died quickly.”

Fenris’ throat constricted, silencing him, as he remembered how in every dream Hawke looked weaker, more haunted and hollow-eyed; and how in every dream they suffered. He’d glimpsed them fighting, fleeing, binding their wounds, imprisoned, beaten, screaming. He woke from some of those dreams screaming himself.

Fortunately, the Inquisitor said exactly what Fenris couldn’t manage: “Then we’d better get them out, and quickly.”

“How?” said Varric, hanging on the Inquisitor’s every word.

“Good question.” Lavellan’s eyes had turned sharp, focused, without a trace of their earlier sorrow or pity, as if she’d boxed away her emotions with action imminent. Fenris could appreciate that. “Ideas, anyone? Solas?”

Solas shook his head. “We could, perhaps, enter the Fade through more ordinary means -- by dreaming -- and reach Hawke from there. But even to do that much would place us in Nightmare’s power, and we know the demon is too powerful for us to fight.”

“But we don’t have to defeat Nightmare,” Varric said. “We just have to hold it off long enough to get out with Hawke. We make a quick strike, maybe sneak in while it’s distracted …”

“How do we distract a demon the size of a fortress?” asked Cullen, coming forward to join the others around the map table, where before he’d stood at the door. It seemed the tactical discussion interested him as condolences had not.

“I’m more concerned with how we get out with Hawke,” Lavellan said. She grabbed a roll of paper and a pen and started making notes that Fenris couldn’t read from across the table. “If we can’t do that, there’s no point working out how to distract Nightmare. Last time we came back via rift. Can we use another rift to bring Hawke back? Then, if our bodies are still in the material world, all we have to do to get out ourselves is wake up.”

“Perhaps,” Solas said, still skeptical. “There’s no reason to suspect passing through a rift would fail to return Hawke to the physical world. But we would have to find one from the other side -- one we could locate and secure in this world as well. And, given Nightmare’s power, for the others to wake up might not be so simple.”

“I don’t know how closely tied the Fade is to this world’s geography,” the Inquisitor said, looking once again at Solas, “but if we find a rift in the physical world and enter the Fade near it, we’d be able to locate it from the other side, right? Then we could travel the Fade from there to find Hawke, and return to the rift with them.”

“Maybe,” Solas admitted. He glanced around the room, and his eyes seemed to linger on Fenris and Varric. “I cannot stress enough how much our current understanding of the situation is based on conjecture. We should discuss this in far greater detail, Inquisitor.”

 _Without any pesky non-mages present?_ Fenris wondered. _Or without anyone who will argue for Hawke’s sake?_ He said aloud, “I see nothing stopping you from doing so.”

“No, Solas has a point,” Cullen said. “If this is going to represent a significant commitment of Inquisition resources, planning for it should go beyond this room. And we should get more mages in on this. Not that I don’t trust your expertise, Solas, but there’s always room for a second opinion.”

Solas frowned but did not argue. The Inquisitor frowned as well, her rounded cheeks making it look rather like a child’s pout.

“We might not have time for all that,” Varric said. “You said so yourself, Chuckles.”

“If we rush, we’ll only throw away more lives,” Solas replied.

“We can’t afford to waste time, but we do have to do some planning.” The Inquisitor spoke with considerable authority, and her next words were orders. “I want to speak to Leliana, Vivienne, and Fiona as well as Solas. Commander, I’d like your opinion on likely rifts we’ve secured but not yet closed. I have a map of them here somewhere.”

The gathering broke up: Solas went to the Inquisitor’s side, speaking to her quietly, while Cullen turned to the soldiers at the door and sent them off with messages to other Inquisition leaders. Varric let out a long breath and looked around like a man at loose ends, trying to meet Fenris’ eye, but Fenris ignored him. If he were lucky, they’d forget to send him out of the room while they talked.

He was not lucky. The Inquisitor followed Varric’s gaze and noted his presence. “Fenris, I’d appreciate it if you’d join us, as well. We might be able to learn more from your dreams.”

“Of course,” Fenris said, betraying no surprise. That probably meant being prodded at by a pack of mages, but he’d endure far more than that if it would bring Hawke back.

“Varric, you’re welcome to remain as well,” Lavellan added. “And Cole, do you have any insights on Nightmare?”

Fenris had forgotten Cole was even there, as he lingered quietly in the corner. Hawke had written that that happened often around Cole. A potentially dangerous talent; Fenris would have to keep a closer eye on him.

But now Cole only shook his head. “No. Hearing hurts doesn’t help with demons.”

The Inquisitor nodded as if this made sense. “All right. Thank you. Well, let’s get started.” 

By the time the Inquisition’s informal council adjourned, the sun had set. Fenris felt drained: he and Varric had argued quite fiercely just to ensure the rescue mission went forward, aided, to Fenris’ surprise, by the Inquisitor herself. Lavellan took it as a given that, as she said many times, “We cannot abandon Hawke.” Guilt, Fenris decided: she had caused Hawke’s stranding and now sought to absolve herself of the consequences of her decisions. But he didn’t care what the Inquisitor’s motives were, as long as she helped.

Against them stood Solas and another mage, Vivienne. They argued that the attempt was too risky, too dangerous, and that it would “dishonor Hawke’s sacrifice” for more people to die in an attempt to rescue them. Fenris replied, rather acerbically, that nothing would dishonor Hawke’s sacrifice more than to repay it with abandonment. But Lavellan took their points well enough to insist that she would not order anyone to enter the Fade; only volunteers would go on this mission. Fenris was, of course, the first to volunteer, followed closely by Varric. No one else in the room did, but Lavellan seemed to expect others once the rest of the Inquisition were informed of the opportunity.

“Want to grab a drink?” Varric asked, as the two of them exited the war room together. “The Herald’s Rest serves good ale.”

“I’d rather sleep,” Fenris said, in much the tone he might have used for “I’d rather die.”

Varric glanced up at him. “About that … You look tired, and you got here very quickly.”

“I have gotten a completely adequate amount of sleep,” Fenris said. Then, in imitation of how Hawke used to speak when their insomnia and nightmares were very bad, he added, “Last night I slept an entire three hours.”

He hadn’t, actually. Varric was right: Between the nightmares and his need to get to Skyhold as soon as possible, he hadn’t been sleeping much at all. Every time he woke up screaming after watching Hawke suffer, he would simply pack and get back on the road.

Varric seemed about to comment on this, but before he could, they turned a corner and almost ran directly into a man with a staff and rather terrible mustache. He said, in the finest upper-class Minrathous accent, “Varric! Just the man I wanted to see. And you must be Fenris.”

The mage offered a hand for Fenris to shake. He didn’t take it.

 _I should warn you about Dorian_ , Hawke had written. _He’s_ not _a magister, as he’ll happily tell anyone who’ll listen, but he’s close enough to spit on one. Lavellan likes him, and I can see why: he’s charismatic and seems decent enough. But I got into a conversation with him on slavery once and he tried to convince me that it’s better than being poor. As I am a former poor person and he very clearly is not … I think you’d want to steer clear of him; or, rather, I think he had better steer clear of you._

Oblivious to this sage advice, and to Fenris’ reaction, Dorian kept prattling on. “Varric mentioned the tattoos, or was it Hawke? I’ve seen them before, of course -- we might have met in Minrathous, actually -- but never up close. From what I’ve read, the preparation of the lyrium is quite intensive; it’s a fascinating process, one I would love to learn more about -- ”

Varric made frantic cut-it-out motions, but Dorian didn’t heed them, at least not before Fenris grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground one-handed. Sparks buzzed uselessly between Dorian’s fingers as he choked and grabbed at Fenris’ gauntlet with his other hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Fenris said, voice absolutely glacial. “In fact, it would be best if you didn’t speak to me. I hope you die screaming.”

He dropped Dorian and turned away, almost hoping that the mage would aim an attack at his back so that he’d have an excuse to whirl around and kill him. But no attack came, only coughing. As Fenris left the room, he heard Dorian say, “But _he’s_ the one who touched _me_!”


	3. Chapter 3

The Fade smelled of despair. Not as Orlesian ham tasted of despair, of ennui and dusty brocade and ancient tired lineages; but as slavers’ dens smelled of despair -- and blood, by the time Fenris got through with them.

At first it was fine. They woke up in what appeared to be the same Inquisition-guarded cabin they’d performed the ritual in, just greener and hazy, with the odd floating basket and a chair hovering upside down above the desk it should have sat under. When they stepped outside the sky was strange and stormy, but that was all right too. This much Fenris remembered from his previous visit to the Fade, years ago, in Hawke’s attempt to help Feynriel. Not a good memory: He’d betrayed Hawke, led astray by a demon’s honeyed words and his own fears, and they’d cut him down. And then they’d forgiven him. “I don’t see any point in being angry,” they’d said. “Not when I can tell you’re already beating yourself up over it more than I ever could.” They’d even half-apologized for hurting him, when they’d had to put him down like the mad dog he’d almost become.

Memories aside, the Fade was only another hostile environment, certainly no worse than the Deep Roads, if somewhat stranger. A spirit stood in the cabin and tried to tell them of the vibrant laugh of the woman who had once lived there: Fenris reached for his sword, and Varric for Bianca, but Solas just spoke politely to the thing until it went away.

“We’re wasting time,” said the fourth and final member of their party, the Grey Warden Blackwall. His presence surprised Fenris, but not as much as Solas’, when the mage had actively argued against this entire plan. The Inquisitor must have convinced him to come -- and she had sent him off with a kiss on the cheek, so Fenris had some idea how.

“One never knows when a little courtesy shall be rewarded,” Solas said now. Even Fenris could admit that they needed a mage on this expedition, and that given, it was best to have one so familiar with the Fade; but Fenris distrusted Solas’ apparent affinity for spirits. “But we  _ should _ move.”

The mage led them out of the cabin, into the open air under the boiling sky, where the rift turned and twisted sickeningly a little way up the hill. There he gathered his magic and opened their path -- not, however, without demanding Fenris’ help.

“You’re the one dreaming of Hawke -- you have a connection to them that allows you to see them in the Fade,” Solas explained. “We should be able to follow that connection directly to them. Take my hand, and focus on Hawke.”

The former Fenris did reluctantly, though without protest, as he suspected it was the least of the discomforts he’d suffer before they were through. Focusing on Hawke, however, was easy. He had thought of little else since receiving their last letter. In his mind’s eye he saw the light in their eyes when they looked at him, the small smile that invited him in like a warm hearth to sit beside -- like home. Sometimes he thought he could feel the ghost of that warmth in his bones, a phantom touch on his shoulder, their lips on his skin. He cursed himself for taking their time together for granted, for letting a single moment of it slip away unremembered -- and then they’d laugh and he’d forget his curses entirely.

Solas waved his staff in an expansive arc and the Fade twisted before him, the scenery turning nauseatingly fluid. Behind them stood a green Hinterlands hillside, and the rift; before them stretched Nightmare’s realm. Where they stood, the two met in a clash of landscapes, black rocks rising suddenly out of grass, puddles cut off mid-pool with the water hanging unnaturally in the air.

“I don’t see Hawke,” Fenris said. His voice contained an edge he hadn’t meant to let creep in, making it too clear that he mistrusted Solas’ magic.

Solas almost smiled. “That, of course, would be too easy. But they should be nearby.”

“And if they’re not?” Blackwall asked.

Solas’ expression turned dour. “Then they are lost, and we may be as well.”

In the sky over the dark realm, bright bursts of light exploded into cascades of incandescent sparks, screaming among the roiling clouds.

“There’s our distraction,” Varric said. The rest of the Inquisition’s considerable force of mages would attack Nightmare from outside its realm -- how exactly Fenris had not asked. They could not kill the demon, but they could draw its attention. “Let’s go before it runs out and this thing catches us with our breeches down.”

They stepped through onto the dark, wet rock, and now the Fade smelled of despair.

“We must be careful not to be cut off from our retreat,” Solas said, looking back at the grassy hillside, which remained behind them. “The Inquisitor and her troops will deal with any demons that go through the rift, but if we can’t get Hawke back to it -- ”

A nerve shredding shriek cut through Solas’ superfluous words, drawing everyone’s attention to a spiny, thin form perched on a nearby rock: a fear demon.

“Shit,” Varric said, hoisting Bianca and sending two bolts into the demon’s putrid flesh, killing it. “So much for slipping in quietly. Hawke? Hawke, can you hear me?”

That was the simplest way to find Hawke, Fenris supposed, though he doubted it would be that easy.

And he was wrong. As they stepped forward, starting to spread out into an arc to search, rock scraped against metal, and Hawke crawled out from the base of a nearby spire, hair disheveled and partially singed, covered in half-healed wounds and half-destroyed armor. They looked around slowly, confused, brow furrowing as their eyes landed on the intruders. “Varric … ?”

“Hawke!” Fenris didn’t realize he was moving across the broken ground until Hawke was already in his arms, their armor digging into his flesh through his leathers as he held them tight, and then something else was digging into his flesh, and Solas cast a barrier and then a wall of sparks to push them apart just as Hawke tried to stab Fenris in the gut with a jagged piece of metal. It left Fenris with the taste of ozone in his throat, a shallow wound bleeding on his stomach, and a blank stare as Hawke grinned wickedly at him and licked his blood off the makeshift blade.

“Maker,” Varric said, “what did they …”

“Do to me?” Hawke finished, laughing. “Well, you’re going to find out, aren’t you?”

“It’s a demon,” Solas said dismissively. “One of Nightmare’s minions, luring you in with what you hope to see. Beware: The Fade can trick one’s senses.”

“I would have appreciated the warning better had it come before the minor stabbing,” Fenris said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the false Hawke, which still smiled at him with bloody lips.

“So what are you going to do? Kill me?” The imposter tore off what remained of its breastplate, baring its scarred chest. Fenris knew those scars better than he knew his own. “Go ahead. Put your  _ blade _ right in me, Fenris. I -- ”

Varric shot the creature in the head. He looked pale and disgusted as he lowered Bianca. But he glanced at Fenris and said, “You all right, elf?”

“I’m fine. It’s scarcely even a flesh wound.” 

That obviously wasn’t what Varric had really meant, but he didn’t press the issue. Fenris watched as the fake Hawke’s corpse dissolved into an iridescent ooze.  _ Demons … _ An obvious risk of traveling in the Fade, but Fenris had hated them even before that stunt.

“Maker, I hate this place,” Varric said, echoing Fenris’ own thoughts. The dwarf turned to Solas. “So how do we know which Hawke is real?”

“I will be able to tell,” Solas said, as if he were the Maker’s gift to their humble expedition. “The rest of you -- follow my lead. Be careful who you trust, and who you kill.”

“If they’re trying to kill us, they’re probably not the right Hawke,” Blackwall suggested.

“Not nece -- ” Solas began, but the demons cut him off again. A wave of them flowed into the cave-hollow in which they stood; others emerged from under rocks, from crevices in the walls, twisted bodies pressing together and gyrating apart.

One in every three of the host facing them wore Hawke’s guise.

Solas sent lightning crackling among them at once, so Fenris supposed he must be certain the true Hawke was not among them -- but Fenris hated fighting them even so. Their oily blood quickly made it clear that Solas was right, but their faces were still Hawke: Hawke in pain, Hawke in rage, Hawke contorted with hatred as he’d never seen. It hurt worse than the blows the demons aimed at him -- unlike the first imposter, these Hawkes were fully equipped, with black armor and spiked axes. But they fell quickly before Fenris’ sword, as did the undisguised demons around them. Nothing too powerful yet: they might still have a chance.

Fenris pushed away thoughts of who -- or  _ what _ \-- he was fighting, losing himself in the rhythm of his strikes. A mistake: a huge demon struck him from behind, where he’d thought Blackwall had his back --  _ Hawke _ would have had his back, and he’d momentarily forgotten who he was fighting  _ with _ as well as  _ against _ . Solas froze the creature before it could press its advantage, but the others closed in around Fenris, cutting him off from his allies. He put his back to a stone spire, only to have the spire melt away behind him.  _ Cursed Fade.  _ Moving backwards, he stepped on something that cried out and scrambled away from him.

“Hawke?” Fenris said, feeling stupid. The figure, which must have been hiding under the now-vanished spire, did appear to be Hawke -- though that meant little here. But they didn’t look or act like the other imposters: dressed in rags, with a black eye and a wounded arm clutched to their chest, they held a rusty sword in a tight, bruised grip but made no attempt to attack. Instead a demon struck at them, claws raking down as they raised their sword to block it. Probably a ruse, setting up a later betrayal, but when the sword snapped near the hilt, Fenris leapt forward anyway to block the attack, turning his back on the potentially false Hawke.

When he turned back they were running away, ducking between the demons, who gave chase. Without thinking, Fenris called, “Wait!” and started after them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blackwall, Solas, and Varric approaching him, their own opponents slain and the ground between them cleared, but he had no time for them. He slashed at the demons as he ran and trusted the others to mop them up -- a trust not entirely misplaced, from the crossbow bolts sprouting in his opponents’ flesh as he went. 

It was a short chase. Hawke ran into a dead end almost at once, throwing up their hands and crying, “Shit!” Then they turned and raised their sword: even broken, the jagged edge was still sharp. Fenris’ heart sank as he readied his own weapon. Another imposter? But still, they made no aggressive moves, only sank into a basic defensive stance -- made rather pathetic by the broken weapon -- and watched Fenris with blank eyes, as if they didn’t recognize him.

_ The Fade can trick one’s senses _ . Perhaps for Hawke as well as Fenris and his companions. Carefully, Fenris lowered his blade. “Hawke? It’s Fenris.”

Hawke said nothing, just stared at him. Wouldn’t an imposter welcome Fenris, try to get close to him? Or was that just his own desperation talking? Fenris reached a slow, careful hand out to this Hawke, who moved away and raised their sword. “Whatever you see, it isn’t real.”

Footsteps: Fenris glanced back to see the others coming to join him. They’d finished off the remainder of the demons, earning them all a moment’s reprieve. Likely more enemies would be along soon.

“Did you find the real one?” Blackwall asked, looking at the ill-dressed Hawke in a way that set Fenris’ teeth on edge: as if they were a caged animal. 

“Yes,” Solas said, before Fenris could answer. He raised his staff and a green light swirled around Hawke, following them as they twitched away. Fenris’ jaw clenched as he watched Hawke try to escape the spell. They must’ve been too weak to use their templar skills. “This is the true Hawke.”

“Hawke?” Varric said gently. “We’re here to take you home.”

As Varric spoke, a fist-sized demon with the bloated body of a tick and skin of shining obsidian dropped from an overhang onto Hawke’s shoulder, hissing and bubbling. Hawke flinched but made no move to knock it off. When Fenris went to kill it, Hawke ducked away, shaking their head even as it sank spiked mandibles into the meat of their shoulder. With a cry of disgust and horror, Varric shot the demon, Bianca’s bolt popping it like a blister. Its black ichor splattered Hawke’s face and hair, and they didn’t bother wiping it away.

“We don’t have time to keep staring at them,” Blackwall pointed out after a moment’s silence. “We should -- ”

Hawke lunged forward and tried to stab Fenris with the rusty, jagged spike of their broken sword, aiming for the spot on his stomach where the false Hawke had already cut through his armor. He reeled back, shocked -- he could think only that Solas had lied, or that Solas himself was an imposter, quietly replaced during the fighting -- angling his sword automatically to deflect the blade. Hawke whirled on Solas, turning their back on Fenris, going for the mage’s face. As Fenris moved to grab Hawke from behind, Solas raised his staff and a cage of lightning bolts appeared around the two of them, crackling with energy. Hawke stumbled and fell back as they tried to avoid the bolts. Unable to use their injured arm, they dropped their sword as they tried to catch themself, but Fenris caught them by the shoulders instead, even though he had to release his own weapon to do it. Metal rang against stone. Hawke slumped, falling limply against Fenris, and he staggered back: they’d lost weight, their ribs visible through their torn clothes, but they were still considerably larger and heavier than he was. He would have run into Solas’ cage had the mage not dismissed it. Wrapping his arms around Hawke, his fingers wet with the blood flowing from their freshly wounded shoulder, he braced himself to hold them mostly upright. “Hawke?”

They were still conscious but their eyes stared past him, unfocused. Quickly, Blackwell moved to help take their weight; stepping forward, Solas pulled a healing potion from his belt. Hawke didn’t resist as the mage poured the potion down their throat. The bleeding from their shoulder slowed to a trickle, and their eyes sharpened: they looked around as if just waking up.

“Hawke?” Varric said. “Do you feel better?”

Hawke nodded -- something in Fenris’ chest released -- and stood, taking their own weight. Then they bent and grabbed Fenris’ sword from the ground with both hands. Before they could make any attempt at wielding it, their wounded arm gave out; they dropped it with a grunt of pain.

“Hawke, you seem really determined to kill us,” Varric said, his tone a thin veneer of humor over deep worry. “Could you maybe put that on hold till we get out of the Fade?”

Hawke visibly thought about this for a moment. Then they rasped, in a voice so hoarse as to be unrecognizable, “If you feed me.”

“Of course,” said Blackwall, sounding rather appalled at the idea that they wouldn’t.

Hawke looked expectantly at them, sending Fenris to search his belt pouches, where he felt fairly sure he had some jerky -- yes. He gave Hawke all of it, since they obviously needed it. It wasn’t real anyway. Fade jerky: from what Solas had said, it wouldn’t do much for Hawke anyway, but they seemed satisfied, wolfing it down as if they hadn’t had a proper meal for months. After all, they hadn’t.

Fenris met Hawke’s eyes as he handed the food over, and still saw little recognition there; soon they looked away.

“To the rift, quickly,” Solas said, as Fenris picked up his sword and sheathed it. He would have liked to bandage Hawke’s shoulder, as it still bled a little, but there wasn’t time: demonic shrieks echoed through the twisted stone passages. Instead Fenris put a hand on Hawke’s back as the group ran, staying close behind them. They shook him off.

Blackwall, in the lead, was perhaps three steps from the sunny green Hinterlands Fade when the sky over Nightmare darkened still further and something like tentacles started to twist among the clouds. A voice echoed from the sky with an impossibly deep chuckle, making Hawke duck down as if to physically escape. “Ah, I was almost too distracted to greet you, but that would be remiss of me. I’m so glad you all came back for a second taste of my hospitality.

“Solas. Blackwall. Varric. All familiar. I fear I’m almost bored with you. But  _ Fenris _ … oh my, where do I even start?”

Fenris pushed a frozen Hawke over the border into the Hinterlands. The change of scenery didn’t stop the voice.

“I should  _ reassure you _ . You think this is your fault for not being with Hawke: for letting them go to Adamant, for not being there to protect them. You think you could have stopped this. But you’re wrong. There’s no need to  _ beat yourself up _ . The truth is, nothing you could have done mattered, because nothing you’ve ever done has mattered.”

Behind them, pride demons rose among the rocks, crackling whips of lightning in their claws.

“It’s quite funny, really. You crossed half a continent to escape your master but you just couldn’t survive without someone to give you orders, could you? It’s like watching a dog walk on his back legs, pretending to be a person. At least Danarius didn’t order you into his  _ bed _ .”

Fenris shoved Hawke, still unresponsive, into the rift, and they disappeared.

“You could have come with Hawke and died for them, but when have they  _ ever _ listened to you? You said the Bone Pit was cursed. You said Anders was dangerous. You said the mages deserved their fate. You make a great mynah bird, repeating yourself for your owner’s amusement.”

At Solas’ touch, Blackwall and then Varric vanished from the Fade.

“No wonder Hawke wouldn’t hand you over. No wonder Danarius was jealous: he paid so much for you, and all it really took was a few empty words.”

Solas leaned over to Fenris, staff glowing, and spoke two more empty words: “Wake up.”


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris reached his feet almost before his eyes had opened, and he was out the door before Solas lifted his head, though the Inquisition soldiers, medics, and mages staffing the cabin made abortive attempts to stop him. He made it outside in time to see green threads of magic spiralling from Lavellan’s hand to the rift as a pride demon roared on the hill, surrounded by a circle of Inquisition soldiers, a very large Qunari swinging a maul at its ankle. Even that Fenris ignored, however: he sought only Hawke.

He found them curled on the ground under the rift and went to their side at once, calling for them. They didn’t respond, but perhaps they hadn’t heard him over all the noise: the discordant whispers of the rift, the grating hum of Lavellan’s magic, the deep chuckling of the pride demon and sizzling of lightning in its claws, and the soldiers’ more mundane shouts. As Fenris reached Hawke, the rift twisted closed with a terrible crunching sound. Lavellan lowered her hand, face shining with sweat, and drew an empty sword hilt, summoning to it a blade of pure magic that bent the light in iridescent patterns. Then she threw a barrier over both Fenris and Hawke -- Fenris grimaced at the feeling of magic against his skin -- as the pride demon managed to kick away the Qunari and, ignoring the soldiers still ringed around it, turned to them.

Sparks cascaded harmlessly over Lavellan’s barrier as the demon snapped its whip down at them. Fenris leapt to his feet, drawing his sword; he’d have to care for Hawke later. Hawke remained on the ground, curled into a ball with their back to the battle and their unwounded arm over their face. Clearly, they were in no shape to defend themself, and that kept Fenris back, near them, when he would otherwise have thrown himself at the demon.

“Don’t turn your back on me!” The Qunari had recovered; his maul crunched against the demon’s scales. The demon let out a roar but did not turn, still moving steadily towards Fenris and Hawke. Its roar turned into a shriek as a thin man climbed its back and plunged twin daggers into its head. Fenris had a feeling he’d seen the man before, but had more important things to worry about in mid-battle. The demon had almost reached him, and while he felt confident in his own ability to face it -- he’d fought worse -- he was worried about Hawke, who hadn’t gotten up.

“Hey, ugly! Over here!” As the Inquisitor swung her magic blade, ice spells spun off it and impacted in the demon’s hide like tiny meteorites. A familiar mechanical noise told Fenris that Varric had emerged and added Bianca to the fray. The demon shook its head, trying to dislodge the man still on its back, who clung to the hilts of his daggers --  _ Cole, that’s Cole _ ,  _ remember the ridiculous hat _ \-- so that the motion only twisted them in the wounds. Most of the Inquisition soldiers had fallen back now, but one of the demon’s knees buckled under the assault from behind of the Qunari, who must have been the Iron Bull. Still it reached for Fenris and Hawke, claws raking down at them -- claws that Fenris sliced through as they came down. Like cutting bread: his blade of mercy was a  _ good _ sword. Oily demon blood and the severed claws themselves rained down over both him and Hawke.

Fenris went on the offensive, now that it was close enough, slashing at the demon’s torso in great arcs, letting the magic of the lyrium in his skin spread over him and his blade so that it cut deeper. He went up to his wrists, then elbows, in demon gore. For an endless moment there was nothing in the world but the sword in his hands and the flesh tearing before him. Then he felt the demon die, and stepped back to get out of the body’s path as it listed and fell, already dissolving off into the brisk air.

Climbing down from the demon’s corpse, Cole looked at Fenris and said, in solemn, wounded tones, “My hat is not ridiculous.”

“I didn’t know wearing a serving tray on one’s head was in fashion,” Fenris replied. “Must be Orlesian.”

Then he realized he hadn’t actually  _ said _ anything about Cole’s hat. He was about to snap at Cole to stay out of his head when Lavellan’s voice drew his attention away; almost immediately, Fenris forgot Cole completely.

“Hawke?” Lavellan said, kneeling at their side where they still lay on the ground. Sheathing his sword, Fenris joined her, and she glanced up from her examination of Hawke, her hands still glowing gold with magic. “I don’t think they’re conscious. But I’m not much of a healer.”

Without waiting for Fenris to respond, Lavellan brushed the magic from her hands and stood, calling, “Someone have a stretcher? A stretcher for Ser Hawke?”

As gently as he possibly could, Fenris nudged aside the arm covering Hawke’s face, and their eyes rolled towards him: they were awake, but remained motionless.

“Hawke …” Fenris said, feeling choked by a sense of things unsaid, of things he needed to say, but he couldn’t actually think of any -- he couldn’t put what he felt into words; in fact, he wasn’t even sure what he felt, besides overwhelmed. He ought to be glad for Hawke’s more-or-less safe return and he was, of course, but seeing them in such a state --

Before he could even begin to sort through his thoughts, Varric arrived at Hawke’s side, swearing quietly as he looked at them. Varric reached for Hawke’s unwounded hand, then let his own drop. “Hawke? Hawke, can you hear me?”

Hawke didn’t respond, and then came Inquisition soldiers with a stretcher, medics and mages at their side, and Fenris and Varric found themselves pushed out of the way by the bustle of medical activity. They trailed behind as the soldiers carried Hawke into the hillside cabin, where they joined several of the Inquisition troops who had suffered some injury from the pride demon: most were minor, requiring only potions or a quick spell, but two soldiers lay on pallets, faces contorted with pain. Lavellan was there, smiling and chatting as she healed a gash on the arm of an starstruck young dwarf; Cole passed unnoticed before Fenris’ eyes.

“Everyone who’s not a healer or hurt, get out!” said one of the medics, with authority, as more people tried to get into the already-crowded cabin, including Blackwall, and the Iron Bull, and a blond elf with a bow alongside several more uniformed soldiers. Fenris tucked himself into a corner as Varric sighed and left, but unlike Cole, he drew attention: a slightly-harried looking elven woman fixed hard eyes on him and demanded, “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Fenris’ wounds from the Fade had healed on exiting it, of course, and he’d gotten through the fight with the pride demon without a scratch.

“Go on, then.”

“I’m here for Hawke,” Fenris insisted: he did not want to leave them alone with strangers, especially strange mages. Hawke trusted the Inquisition, but Fenris didn’t -- at least, not that far.

The woman’s eyes softened as she glanced back to where other medics transferred Hawke’s limp form from the stretcher to the cabin’s one real bed. “You don’t need to stay -- you should go get cleaned up. We’re going to need to get a closer look at their wounds, and it won’t be pleasant.”

“All the more reason for me to stay,” Fenris said, determined, though he could have used washing: he could feel the demon’s blood drying on his skin.

“He can stay,” Lavellan said, as her patient left the room, arm bandaged. One of the healers offered the Inquisitor a rag; she looked blankly at it for a moment before realizing her hands were bloody and wiping them off. “Cole too. I, however, am going to get out of your way. I’ll be outside; let me know if you need anything.”

The medics glanced at each other: from their expressions, they had no idea who “Cole” was, but they didn’t question the Inquisitor, instead sending her off with profuse thanks. Fenris himself hadn’t even realized Cole was still in the room: he knelt by one of the pallets, helping the wounded soldier drink a cup of water. Fenris would have chastised himself for losing track of Cole again, but then the healers turned to Hawke, drawing Fenris’ own attention with them, and Cole slipped his mind once more.

The elven woman was right: watching the healers work on Hawke was not pleasant. Hawke roused enough to resist the attempts to strip them of the filthy, bloody rags they wore, and while Fenris understood the necessity, he couldn’t help coming down on Hawke’s side. He grabbed and shook the healer who suggested that they just tie Hawke to the bed and get on with it, so they tried to send him outside again. When he wouldn’t go, someone threatened to go get the Inquisitor, to which Fenris could only reply that  _ she _ would have to drag him out, too.

“It’s all right!” Cole cried, drawing everyone’s attention, at which point they discovered that as they argued, Cole had quietly fixed the problem, somehow getting a blank-eyed Hawke into the loose, open-sided white gown the healers had intended as their next garment. Fenris couldn’t help regarding this action with suspicion rather than gratitude, and stared balefully at Cole for as long as he could remember to do so. 

Cole positioned himself at Hawke’s head, whispering inaudible words of comfort as the healers examined and treated them, words that apparently sufficed: Hawke lay still and let the medics do their work. Fenris couldn’t help but feel that that position should have been his, but he had no idea what he would say -- he had never been good at comfort -- so he didn’t contest it, but stood back, awkwardly.

Even from there he could see too much. The healers carefully catalogued each of Hawke’s wounds; though Fenris saw hands shake and rise to cover mouths, they remained professionally detached. Fenris struggled and failed to emulate them, looking at the array of cuts and scrapes, bruises and burns arrayed across Hawke’s skin, marching across their pre-existing scars. Various ages -- some half-healed -- but Fenris recognized, above all else, that many of these were not the wounds of battle. He’d seen some before, suffered some before, in Tevinter -- there were whip-marks on Hawke’s back, mostly healed, and he hadn’t noticed till now the contusions on their wrists and ankles. Hawke had been chained, helpless, at the demons’ mercy, and they had none of that -- Fenris desperately wanted to leave the room, get some air, some space, but he forced himself to stay. He’d already run out on Hawke so many times; he couldn’t do it now. He could not, however, force himself to watch, especially with Hawke twitching and flinching as the healers worked on them. His eyes bored holes into the wall across from him. Hawke was terribly, mercifully quiet in pain, their gasps and groans mostly covered by the healers’ movements -- once or twice they yelped and Fenris forced himself not to wince.

“Drink.” Someone pushed a cup into Fenris’ hands and he obeyed automatically, realizing only after he swallowed the water that it was Cole.

“I thought you were with Hawke,” Fenris said, tone accusatory. He felt both glad for and resentful of Cole’s help, though he could no longer remember what exactly that help had been.

“You need me more.”

“I don’t need you,” Fenris snapped, shoving the empty cup back into Cole’s hands.

Cole took it as if he’d been expecting this and said only, “You can talk to them.”

Fenris turned away and forgot Cole immediately. The healers had drawn back from around Hawke -- some of them saw to the other wounded in the room, while others had left -- and Hawke lay peacefully under a blanket, eyes half-open. Fenris went to their side; unseen behind him, Cole pushed a chair up to the bed for him.

“Hawke?” Fenris said, sitting down.

For a long moment Hawke didn’t respond; then their eyes inched open. “Fenris …?”

“I’m here.” Hesitantly, Fenris took Hawke’s uninjured hand in his, careful not to hurt them with the gauntlets he still wore. Hawke’s fingers shifted in his loose grip, tracing the lyrium lines in his palm.

“Are you real?”

“Yes.” Fenris tightened his grasp on Hawke’s hand, feeling familiar calluses and scars -- and new ones. Their nails were broken and ragged, some completely gone, or in the process of growing back. Fenris couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been lost to injury, or deliberately pulled … 

“I miss you.” Hawke closed their eyes, clearly exhausted.

“I’m here,” Fenris repeated, quietly. He didn’t want to wake Hawke if they’d fallen asleep. But he also had no intention of releasing their hand. “I won’t leave you.”

And he didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be no update next month (November 15) as I will be working hard on NaNoWriMo. Next update should be December 15, 2018.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: suicide mention/reference, severe harm to an animal (dog)

Three days later, the morning after he’d finally worked up the nerve to curl up next to Hawke while they rested, Fenris woke tied to the bed.

He was alone, his wrists bound tightly to the headboard. His confused attempts to pull loose quickly became painful: his bonds were thin, sharp twine, of the same kind that Fenris himself usually carried in a belt pouch.

“Hawke?” No answer. Could someone have kidnapped Hawke here, in the center of Redcliffe -- the Inquisition had moved them to the village inn -- without waking Fenris? Well, someone had definitely managed to tie him up without waking him, which startled and worried him even independently of any worry about Hawke. But why? Ransom, revenge? A strike against the Inquisition, perhaps, but it would be a poor one, considering that the Inquisitor herself slept upstairs. But Hawke had plenty of enemies of their own …

_ Reasons later. Escape first. _ Fenris twisted, trying to find some leverage in his awkward position. He noticed as he did that his sword was not where he’d left it, in the room’s weapon rack; nor was his belt, with all its useful accoutrements, which he’d draped over a chair. So maybe he’d been right about the twine, but --

Someone began to shout for help downstairs, a panicked voice accompanied by distant thuds. Fenris called out again -- for Hawke, for Varric -- and heard feet heavy on the stairs, but they went right past his room. Frustrated, he heaved against his bonds with all his strength and managed to overturn the bed with a great crash.

Varric burst into the room. “Hawke?”

“Gone,” Fenris choked out, struggling to turn the bed back over. Blood ran down his wrists.

“Shit.” Varric looked torn for a moment, glancing out the door. Fenris wanted to scream at him, a little, but then again, could he blame the dwarf for going after Hawke first? He certainly would have. But Varric then scrambled under the bed to help Fenris, quickly cutting him down. Fenris tossed the bed away, leaving the room in shambles, and then they were both off down the stairs.

They traced the noise to the inn’s kitchen. Lavellan had got there before them -- most of the other major Inquisition figures were already on their way back to Skyhold, but Lavellan and Varric remained. The Inquisitor currently comforted the inn’s cook, who looked pale and disheveled.

Lavellan looked up as Fenris and Varric entered, speaking in a quick, low voice. “Hawke threatened the cook and locked him in the pantry. He doesn’t know where they went after that.”

“That doesn’t sound like Hawke,” Varric said, frowning.

Neither did tying Fenris to the bed. Fenris hated to think of the possibility, but he had to ask: “Have we brought back a demon in Hawke’s form?”

“If Solas says it’s Hawke, it’s Hawke,” Lavellan said without hesitation.

“They  _ looked _ like a demon,” said the cook, turning to face Fenris and Varric. He blanched further at the sight of Fenris and seemed to lose his train of thought. That made Fenris realize how he must look: half-naked and literally redhanded, and he didn’t make a soothing sight at the best of times. But, priorities: he could worry about his appearance once they found Hawke.

The cook recovered, adding, “Tried to take my head off as soon as I came through the door. They were ransacking the kitchen, robbing the pantry -- look at the place! I have to be ready to serve in an hour!”

Fenris almost snapped at the cook for such a mundane concern, but Lavellan patted the man on the shoulder and said, “Then we shouldn’t keep you any longer. Don’t worry about Hawke -- we’ll find them.”

“I hope you don’t bring them back here when you do,” the cook said, moving away. He’d been right about one thing: the kitchen was a mess, obviously the target of a hasty search. A few loaves of bread and a cheese wheel lay scattered by the pantry door; the cook bent to pick them up as Lavellan turned to Fenris and Varric.

“Beheading the cook really doesn’t sound like Hawke,” Varric said -- unhelpfully, in Fenris’ opinion.

“We have to find them,” Fenris said: stating the obvious, but no one else seemed about to run after Hawke. He looked for the nearest exit.

“Yes,” Lavellan agreed, but she frowned as she looked at Fenris. Magic pooled in her hands. “But first -- you’re bleeding.”

Fenris waved a bloody hand, frustrated. “It can wait.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Lavellan snapped, losing the composure with which she’d thus far handled the situation. “Hawke’ll be pissed if you slit your wrists over them.”

_ It looks like Hawke’s the one who slit my wrists. _ Fenris didn’t like to admit it, but if Hawke had been alone in the kitchen … Someone else still could have driven their actions, though he couldn’t exactly think how, or why.

His moment of hesitation was enough for Lavellan to grab his wrists and heal them, though he almost hit her when she lunged at him. With a glare, he said, “If we might have the great Inquisitor’s permission to search for Hawke  _ now _ ?”

“Oh, you are an ass,” said Lavellan, as if this were some neutral fact she had just now confirmed. “Let’s go.”

They followed Hawke’s trail of destruction across the village, which was just coming alive in the early morning -- most of Redcliffe still slept, but the fishermen and washerwomen, everyone who had early work to do, were awake and unhappy. Those who had spotted Hawke were quick to point the searchers after them: Hawke had stolen clothes off washing lines, torn herbs from gardens, pinched pies off windowsills, and forced one particularly tall and early-rising merchant to give them the boots off his feet.

“They said ‘take them off or I’ll cut them off,’ sword against my throat,” the man told Lavellan as he nursed his bruises, a shallow cut running straight across his neck. “I don’t think that was very practical, now that I consider it, but in the moment it was quite effective.”

“At least we know they’re not running around barefoot and half-naked,” Varric said, inserting a note of optimism into the proceedings, as the merchant took his leave.  _ Unlike Fenris _ , he could have added, but Fenris didn’t care about the cold, and the edges and sharp stones of the road weren’t  _ much _ worse without sandals than with them. Varric and Lavellan were disheveled and under-equipped too, but they’d at least taken the time to throw on some clothes and shoes and grab their weapons -- not an option for Fenris, since Hawke had taken his sword.

“I’m very comforted to know that Hawke is slightly unhinged and heavily armed,” Lavellan said dryly. Fenris wanted to object to the word “unhinged,” but couldn’t marshal any arguments against it. What was Hawke doing? Actually, the “what” wasn’t that hard: Fenris had spent enough of his life on the run to recognize a desperate attempt to scavenge supplies. But why? Where did Hawke plan to go? And why had they fled the Inquisition in the first place?

“We didn’t know whether to send to the castle for help or just pull together a posse ourselves,” said one stout young farmer, who claimed Hawke had roughed him up when he’d tried to stop them. He did bear a knot on his head and the beginnings of a black eye, but if Hawke had really meant to hurt him, they could’ve done far worse. The man put his hands on his hips and glanced at Fenris before addressing Lavellan, making it clear that he referred to both Fenris and Hawke when he said, “You can’t just bring violent lunatics into good people’s homes like this, with all due respect, Inquisitor. We had enough of that with those blighted mages.”

Lavellan’s eyes narrowed and she gave the farmer a flinty smile. “If I see any good people, I’ll be sure to give them a wide berth.”

The Inquisitor flounced away before the man could work out that she’d insulted him.

The last person the trio spoke to in Redcliffe, a woman whose baking Hawke had stolen, had seen them run into the trackless woods beyond the village. Hawke had finished with the village, it seemed, and fled with their ill-gotten gains. Without need for discussion, Lavellan led the way into the forest. According to the baker, they were only about fifteen minutes behind Hawke; they ought to be able to catch up.

At least, they would have been able to catch up if they’d had any idea where Hawke was going. But, despite Lavellan’s best attempts at following Hawke’s trail, they soon found themselves hopelessly lost.

“Look, I may be Dalish, but I’m not a hunter, all right?” Lavellan said defensively, though no one had commented on her skill or lack thereof. She had actually managed to find signs of Hawke’s passing -- or so she claimed -- which was more than Fenris or Varric could say. Fenris’ own woodcraft didn’t go much farther than gutting rabbits, and he knew Varric could barely tell elfroot from poison ivy.

Varric sighed. “We’d better go back to the village, if we can even find our way back. This is Ferelden -- someone has to have a dog that can track Hawke.”

“Good idea.” Lavellan nodded and began to turn around.

Fenris didn’t follow. “You go.”

“Fenris, your feet are bleeding,” Lavellan pointed out, impatient again. She rubbed her forehead. “Please come put some clothes on. If you get eaten by a bear wandering around the woods alone, I will never hear the end of it.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, unconvinced -- and, admittedly, quite cold. “Your concern flatters me.”

“Come on, elf,” Varric said, his tone gruff. “Hawke wouldn’t want you to get hurt looking for them.”

_ If they cared what happens to me, they wouldn’t have run off in the first place. _ Unfair -- he hated himself for it -- but it did hurt. And Fenris realized he wasn’t only thinking about Hawke leaving Redcliffe. He’d blamed the Inquisitor for Hawke’s stranding in the Fade, but … 

An issue for later. At the moment, Lavellan seemed to take his silence for agreement, and reached for his hand -- planning to physically lead him out of the woods, like a child? Fenris moved away, grimacing slightly as he stepped on yet another sharp stone. Maybe Lavellan had a point. Whatever was going through Hawke’s head, they clearly didn’t intend for Fenris to follow them. Maybe they meant to contact him later, but Fenris doubted it. If they’d woken him, he would have accompanied them without question; they had to know that. He wasn’t with Hawke because they didn’t want him there, just like when they’d left Kirkwall to hide from the Chantry. They’d had their reasons then, and they had to have their reasons now, but none of those reasons would ever change the way Fenris felt about it. And this time they hadn’t even bothered to tell him. Maybe they’d just finally gotten sick of arguing with him.

The three of them trudged back to Redcliffe in silence, spirits low -- or maybe that was just Fenris. In the time it took Fenris to get dressed, Lavellan and Varric somehow located the village’s best hunting dog and its handler. They knocked on the door just as Fenris finished dressing -- he felt bare and wrong without his belt, and without a weapon to hand -- so that the dog could sniff at Hawke’s bed linens to get their scent. Everyone politely pretended not to notice when the dog initially pointed to Fenris, but his shoulders still tightened. He didn’t want anyone to know he’d crawled into bed with Hawke, not considering the end result; nor did he relish the jokes about being tied up that were sure to follow -- in his mind the possibilities came in Isabela’s voice. Varric had to know, given the position he’d found Fenris in, and he’d probably find it an entertaining story to tell. But Fenris would not humiliate himself further by asking the dwarf to keep quiet.

The hunter instructed the dog away from Fenris, and they took it to the edge of the forest where they knew Hawke had left the village. From there it started off into the woods with purpose, and Fenris felt his own mood lift. Finding Hawke would make all his concerns melt away, he was sure.

But finding Hawke proved more difficult than expected. Several minutes later, the dog whined and its handler sighed as they came to a shallow, fast-flowing stream.

“Your friend is clever,” the handler said, “and doesn’t want to be found. They used the stream to break the trail.”

“But you can find it again, right?” Varric said. “That doesn’t actually work outside of books, does it?”

The hunter shrugged and led the dog across the stream, where it cast around fruitlessly for the scent. “Looks like they didn’t come out here -- they must’ve walked in the stream for a while. We can follow it and try to pick the scent back up, but without knowing which way they went, or how far, or which bank they came out on, I can’t guarantee anything.”

Lavellan sighed, running a hand over her tightly-braided hair. “All right. Varric, Fenris, stick with the dog. I’m going to go back to Redcliffe and get the Inquisition ready to launch a larger-scale search for Hawke, in case that fails.”

Varric nodded.  _ And what if  _ that  _ fails? _ Fenris wondered. How hard could it possibly be to find someone who’d barely been able to walk a few days ago? But this was Hawke, and Fenris had seen for himself Hawke’s ability to drag themself on by will alone. If they truly intended to disappear, no frailty of body would stop them.

Hawke might be able to move mountains, but so could the Inquisition. For the first time Fenris found himself sincerely invested in Lavellan’s whole mythos, if only because it might be his only hope. He couldn’t make himself care about Corypheus -- a blood magic cult out of Tevinter, what a surprise -- but if they could help Hawke … 

“Ah! The Maker smiles on us,” said the hunter, at last, after they’d followed the stream for what felt like miles. She hadn’t needed to say anything, really: Fenris could see the dog growing excited as it circled, ready to start off into the forest again. He could feel that excitement himself. For once in his life fortune had turned his way.

They hurried after the dog, trying to make up for lost time. The further they got from the village -- from civilization -- the greater urgency they all felt. These woods were not tame; even assuming the Inquisition had cleared out all the bandits and apostates and rebel templars, there were still bears and wyverns and Maker knew what else to deal with. Fenris had great respect for Hawke’s ability to defend themself, but in their current state?

The dog didn’t bark as it grew close, but slowed, moving more quietly through the underbrush: well-trained for the hunt. Fenris didn’t like to imagine Hawke pursued like a deer, and couldn’t help glaring at the dog’s handler. He hoped the beast was well-trained enough not to launch itself teeth-first at Hawke as if they were prey.

At last the dog bounded forward, scratching madly at the base of a tree, and its digging rapidly cleared away a pile of brush and leaves to reveal a rough canvas sack from which loaves of bread were already falling, hastily cached, and then Hawke leapt out of the tree, sword cleaving down, and hacked off the dog’s front leg.

The dog screamed. Its handler screamed.

“Holy shit!” Varric said, instinctively bringing up Bianca as Hawke rounded on him.

“Hawke!” Fenris said, shocked and horrified, but he’d long since learned not to let that stop him. He tackled Hawke, shoving them back against the tree, the food cache crushed under their feet; he could feel the wind go out of them, but they didn’t drop the sword, driving the pommel up into Fenris’ stomach. The physical pain hurt less than Hawke’s willingness to hit him. They shoved him aside as he tried to recover and whirled on Varric again.  _ The biggest threat _ , Fenris analyzed, automatically: with Fenris unarmed and reeling and the hunter in shock, only Varric represented any real danger to Hawke. Except he didn’t, because he would never hurt Hawke -- they had to know that.

With a shriek of rage and grief, the hunter launched herself at Hawke, and Hawke cut her down without hesitation.

“Shit!” Varric cried again, and threw something at Hawke, a flask that shattered against their shoulder into a grey mist. Coughing, Hawke tried to cover their face, but too late: they’d already inhaled the miasma and staggered, stunned. “Fenris -- ”

_ Already there _ . Varric didn’t have to tell Fenris what to do: he grabbed the sword from Hawke’s half-limp hand and tossed it away, out of reach, before pulling their arms behind them. They wore his belt around their own waist, which was convenient, letting him access his supplies; by the time Hawke recovered he had their hands tied behind them with the same twine they’d used on him.

All of this he did without thinking, running on adrenaline and decades of combat experience, and then it was done and he had no choice but to confront the reality of what had just happened.

“Ginny,” the hunter coughed from the ground: without releasing Hawke, Fenris looked over to see Varric pouring a potion into her mouth.

“There’s enough elfroot for both of you,” Varric said, glancing at the dog, which lay still and bleeding heavily. The animal might pull through; the Inquisition’s potions could work small miracles. But only  _ small _ miracles: it would never hunt again, not on three legs.

Hawke struggled in Fenris’ grip, growling in frustration. Fenris made himself look at them: wild-haired, face twisted, stolen clothes mismatched and torn. They  _ did _ look like a demon. He’d seen that kind of fury on Hawke’s face before, but never directed at him. He didn’t know what to say.

Finally they subsided, head sagging forward, a picture of exhaustion and defeat. Varric, finished with his ministrations, approached them. “So you didn’t stop wanting to kill us all when you got out of the Fade, I see.”

“Nope,” Hawke said, half-flippant and half-resigned.

“Do you want to talk about that?” Varric said, almost joking.

“Nope,” Hawke repeated. They lifted their head slightly. “Look, you got me. You win. Whatever. Can we just get on with it?”

“‘Whatever’?” the hunter said, standing up -- with difficulty -- from where she’d crouched over her dog. “You almost killed Ginny. You almost killed me!”

Hawke shrugged, wincing slightly as the motion placed pressure on their bound wrists. “‘Almost’ skins no goats.”

Varric stared at Hawke in horror and disgust. Normally they wouldn’t harm an innocent person or creature; normally they would have reached first for negotiation, not violence. They certainly wouldn’t have spoken of their actions so flippantly.

“Get on with what, Hawke?” Fenris asked, finally finding his voice.

Hawke’s head snapped towards him, sudden fury in their eyes. “Oh,  _ you _ can get shafted.”

“Sorry?” Fenris said, though even if he’d misheard Hawke’s words, there was no mistaking the anger and, worse, absolute  _ contempt _ in their voice.

“You heard me. I’m so fucking sick of your bullshit.” Hawke closed their eyes, their expression disgusted -- and tired. “Can we go back to some semblance of civilization now? These boots pinch.”

Against his better judgment, Fenris found himself looking at Varric for support, but the dwarf was, for once, speechless. They had little choice but to acquiesce to Hawke’s request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided not to update this fic regularly from here on out -- since people don't seem very interested in it, I'd rather use my time on other things. If you did enjoy the first five chapters and want to see more, leaving a comment would definitely encourage me to come back to it.


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